


Les rousseurs amères de l’amour | The Red Bitterness of Love

by covenofthearticulate



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Angst, IWTV-era, M/M, VC Secret Santa 2018, lil bit of fluff, post-theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 03:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17133812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/covenofthearticulate/pseuds/covenofthearticulate
Summary: Louis and Armand are stuck in a train cabin together, forced to confront the ugly and complicated problems of their relationship. Named after Arthur Rimbaud's "The Drunken Boat"





	Les rousseurs amères de l’amour | The Red Bitterness of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Burnadette_dpdl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burnadette_dpdl/gifts).



> Part of the VC gift exchange, for @i-want-my-iwtv, who requested some good ol' fashioned Armand/Louis angst! This was my first time ever writing for Armand, so I hope I got his voice right :) Anyway, this was a blast to write and I'm so delighted to be a part of this fandom <3

“Louis…” his voice was soft and inquisitive as he gently sat on the side of the little bed, placing a hesitant hand on the mountain of crossed legs tangled beneath plum colored duvet. “Walk with me?”

“Non, merci,” as if to punctuate his reply, he slid further beneath the covers, slumping against the headrest until the blankets pooled beneath his chin.

 “You’re not going to feed?”

“Not with you.”

 Letting out a sigh, Armand let his hand slip and stared out the window at the blinding white snow and dark countryside.

“This is the third night, now.” His voice revealed the inevitable tenseness lurking in the pit of his stomach. “Tomorrow night the thirst will be too much for the little drink. And if you kill anyone, so help me God, I will abandon you to deal with the consequences on your own.”

“You wouldn’t do that. You don’t want to leave me. And besides…we are trapped in this infernal compartment,” He finally put down the book he had been attempting to read, laying it flat across his chest as he stared at Armand with narrowed eyes. “Leave me.” Not a demand, but a threat; if Armand tried any further, Louis would unfurl his nasty temper and ruin the night for both of them.

Annoyed, but not foolish enough to continue fighting such a pointless uphill battle, Armand straightened his waistcoat and slipped out of the cabin without another word.

He had thought this trip would be good for them. Though being forced to spend several nights in a cramped train carriage was not ideal, it was a last-resort effort. He didn’t need to read Louis’ mind to know he wanted to leave. Though they had undoubtedly sweet moments of passion and devotion, his violent and depressive moods were surfacing much more frequently, and were more enduring than ever before. And, just like in every other relationship he’d struggled to maintain, Armand was helpless. Like a child, watching the water inevitably slip through his desperately cupped hands.  

And so, rather than watch helplessly as Louis came to the inevitable decision, Armand had taken initiative and packed their bags. The Orient Express was simply splendid. It was the height of luxury with its beautiful polished wood interior and ornately furnished cabins. They had booked the best room on board, which was double the size of the cabins in any of the lower coaches, containing one bed and one divan, a small dining table with two armchairs, and a boudoir. It was much more spacious than most of the transport he’d been on, but still small and confined enough to give him an excuse to be close to Louis. The staff was friendly enough, and early in the evening, Armand and Louis spent hours in the dining car simply watching the other passengers. They both agreed that the most interesting people were those in transit. Everyone had some reason for being on board, and it amused the two vampires to try and guess where each passenger was coming from or going: were they here for work or on holiday? Was this their first time on a train? Were they enjoying the ride or simply waiting for it to be over?

 At first, Louis didn’t mind it at all. They had boarded in Vienna, and soon they would be in Budapest, where they would spend a few months before heading east again on the same line to explore Istanbul. A change of scenery often improved his mood, and the first few nights were spent in blissful silence as he sat in bed and stared out the window at the world whizzing by outside. The second night, he had even let Armand hold him as they sat and looked out at the wintery scene together.

But as the days passed, a bitter melancholy gripped his tattered heart once more, and he had slipped into his usual apathetic state in order to shield himself from the violent existential dread that would surely suffocate him if he did not take desperate measures to shield himself. It was hard on both of them. He _wanted_ to be with Armand. Truly, he did. But there were times his heart hurt so much that not even those warm brown eyes and soft velvet touch could heal him.

He did not think it possible to love and hate someone with the same capacity as Lestat, and yet his feelings for Armand were equally intense, and perhaps even more volatile. It was an exercise in cognitive dissonance, this tightrope of a relationship, and they both knew it, though neither one was prepared to confront this issue. After all, they both wanted the same thing at the end of the day. Neither one could live without the companionship of the other, but once again it was getting more and more difficult to breathe without suffocating.

Some nights, he woke with a start at what he swore was the distant sound of his maker’s voice. It hung over him like a looming storm cloud, and some nights he was terrified to even open his eyes, as if he would be greeted by some hideous wraith of a lover sitting at the foot of the bed. But it was impossible to voice these things to Armand. How could he even express such complex sentiments? Was it guilt or fear? Hatred or regret? He didn’t know.

And so he did what he had always done in times of choked silence; he drowned himself in words. His copies of Baudelaire and Rimbaud were tattered, but he hardly needed to see the pages at this point. It simply gave him comfort to feel the aged paper beneath his fingertips as he traced each stanza, reciting the tragic symbolists’ cry for help.

 _“_ _Plus fortes que l’alcool, plus vastes que nos lyres,_ _  
_ _Fermentent les rousseurs amères de l’amour!”_

Armand’s presence suddenly made itself known once more, as he made his way back down the narrow hallway to their room.

_Is that about him or I?_

“It’s about _le bateau ivre_.” Louis replied out loud, refusing to allow the intimate mental connection he knew Armand was seeking. 

The room immediately grew warmer with Armand’s presence; the scent of fresh blood pumping through his system was enough to snag Louis’ attention and force his eyes up from the page, if only for a moment. He ought to have been used to the Hunger by now. Throughout his miserable existence as this damned creature, it was the only constant thing in his life. No matter where he was or what he was doing, he need for blood and the drive to kill was always there, prickling beneath his translucent skin. When he was younger, he reveled in this hunger, this divine self-punishment that made him feel like a saint among the martyrs. He vowed to never kill, and when that vow was broken, it was impossible for him to go back. Now he simply denied himself the blood out of sheer stubbornness. The more attention Armand brought to the matter, the more his resolve strengthened out of pure spite.

But this did not mean the temptation simply vanished. On the contrary, he could not remember wanting anything more than he wanted the blood in this moment. Though he was quite skilled at keeping his stoic expression, he could not help but lock eyes with Armand for just one moment, as if to flash some sort of sign, some miniscule call for help. 

“Rimbaud has been dead for years now. I wonder, will you ever give up your obsessive mourning?”

“He died alone, diseased and miserable, on an island in the middle of nowhere. I will mourn for him, because no one else will.”

“That’s not true, he had that lover of his, didn’t he?” Armand replied casually as he took a seat on the sofa against the wall and toed off his shoes.

 “I don’t know what became of the lover. He shot Rimbaud the last time they were together.”

 “Yes, but neither one of them was truly harmed, were they? It could have been worse. They could have been executed for indecency.”

 “Armand _._ ”

 “What?”

 Armand stared at Louis with an expectant expression. They both knew what was going on; sometimes the best way to get Louis out of these melancholy moods was to pick a fight. It was never pretty, but it at least served as a reminder that Louis was, in fact, capable of emotions beside grief.

 “Nothing.” He wasn’t in the mood to fight tonight, and even if he were, he wouldn’t want to give Armand such satisfaction.

 “No, tell me. I wish to hear,” Armand mumbled, walking closer to the bed.

He sat on the edge, pulling his feet up to sit cross-legged as he stared insistently at Louis. Again, Louis felt the heat radiating off of him, invading his space with insufferable temptation. Armand’s creased brow looked so stunningly beautiful in the moonlight coming through the window--how was it that even during these moments of intense frustration, this creature always managed to captivate Louis? Perhaps that was one of the reasons he had sequestered himself in the first place; he wanted to be mad at Armand, but being mad was terribly difficult at times, and he knew that if he did not draw the line now, he would be wrapped around Armand’s pinkie, just like he had been with Lestat. Though he scorned both Lestat and Armand for their seductive nature, they both knew that Louis would always have a soft spot for such divine beauty. Therefore, the crease of Armand’s brow, the set of his jaw, the sharp look in his eyes, and the scalding blood pumping through his veins in such close proximity rendered him speechless for just a moment.

 “I want to hear your opinions on this symbolist poetry nonsense, because I do not believe you are capable of understanding such emotions. You speak of the red speckled bitterness of love, but you cannot understand it. There is so much you fail to see because you are tangled in your own veil of misery, it amazes me! So tell me what you think when you read those lyrics, because truly, I cannot understand your ignorance.”

“I am not ignorant, I am in mourning.”

 “It has been nearly twenty years. What more could you possibly mourn for?”

 “I would not expect you to understand. How could you, when you have not experienced such loss?”

 It might have been comical, the way Armand suddenly became intensely invested in the argument as his hands gripped at the sheets. But his face was as harshly stoic as ever, and though he wanted to tear back the covers and throttle the man before him, he let his anger simmer. If Louis had any clue he had struck such a deep nerve, he would win.

 “I have experienced worse loss than you could ever imagine.” His voice was flat and cool, but he kept his eyes locked on Louis, silently telling him to _stop this right now._

 “Have you? I wouldn’t know. You so seldom answer the questions I have…you are no better than my maker.”

“And yet you chose me over him.”

“I thought you would be different, but you are not.”

“Leave me, then, if that is your will. Just as you left Lestat." 

“Perhaps I will! What would you do then?”

“I would be completely unsurprised, considering how you’ve managed to be such an utter disappointment to everyone else in your life, and have failed to maintain a single healthy relationship.”

Louis had no response this time. As much as he wished he could ignore Armand’s words, it was impossible. He was right, after all, was he not? Louis had failed everyone in his life- Claudia, Lestat, even his own brother. He abandoned them like the true coward he was.

“Coward is right.” Armand snatched the words from his brain as easily as if they had been said out loud. “You were afraid of your brother; that is why the guilt still weighs so heavy on you. His visions frightened you, and you wanted to abandon him, yes, you wanted nothing to do with him in those last days before his death! And just as every other time, you wanted to run away, because abandonment is the easiest route. You, Louis, who masquerades as the patron saint of melancholy guilt, are no more than a selfish, heartless fool. Just because your Romantic idea of self preservation is drenched in years of grief and decay does not make it any less palatable to the rest of us! I believed in you, Louis! I gave up _everything_ for you, and yet you are not able to so much as lift a finger for me if it so displeases you. Do you think I _want_ this? Do you think it thrills me, being trapped in this carriage with a corpse who does nothing but re-read the same delisional poets each night? I had such high hopes for you, but you’ve been nothing but a disappointment.” 

Silence, save for the sound of Armand’s rapid breath, filled the room. Louis had stopped looking at him a while ago, and as he stared, fixated, at the wall, Armand waited impatiently for a reply. With Louis, he could never tell if he was genuinely formulating a response, or playing the silence treatment and simply ignoring him. After a minute, he decided to prod with the Mind Gift, but was surprised to find that he no longer had access. Louis had been getting better over the years at shutting him out, but he was never able to do it very well for very long. But this time, it was as if an iron curtain had descended around his entire head, making it impenetrable. Impressed but annoyed, Armand shifted in bed to get a better look at Louis, hoping to get a read on him before he inevitably sunk back under the covers and went back to his book.

And that’s when he noticed. The tension jaw and tightness in his throat gave it away at first, but it was only seconds before he saw the pinkish red film begin to gather at the inner corners of his eyes. The harder he tried to hold it back, the more his bottom lip began to tremble, and before long, his perfect porcelain skin was marred with streaks of red, trailing down his face and dribbling from his chin, dropping onto the black satin robe he’d had on for three nights now. His face was calm, focused, but each teardrop that fell from those deep emerald eyes shattered Armand’s heart just a little bit more. Was he sorry for the things he’d said? Not particularly. But would he take back every syllable if it meant sparing Louis from this pain? A million times over.

“Louis…”

When the long silence was over, Louis closed his eyes and inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. Though he knew the dam of emotions would have to break eventually, he was rather hoping that Armand would not be present to witness it. It was stunning, how easily Armand could cut him right to the core. He wasn’t used to being read in such a cruel and accurate manner; though Lestat was cruel and Claudia was oftentimes accurate about his insecurities, Armand was just as cunning and twice as ruthless as the two of them combined. And yet, he wasn’t crying because of Armand’s harsh words at all, really. Everything that he said was true, after all. No, Louis was simply weeping because, for so long, he had denied himself such release. For so long, he forced himself into numbness and swallowed his emotions just to get through each night. But Armand had him cornered now, and as the warm red drops trickled down his face, he simply stared at his companion, in utter surrender. 

“Please don’t leave me,” his voice was small now--not weak or tired, simply softer and quieter than usual.

“ _Non, jamais_.” Armand immediately replied.

“I just miss them so terribly, and though I know each instant I spend missing them, I drift apart from you, I cannot help it. I am miserable, can’t you see that?”

Armand sighed, but moved a little closer and placed a gentle hand on Louis’ lap.

“But what he did to you was unforgivable.” The words sounded so juvenile coming from him, like a jealous child. But it was true; he could never understand Louis’ devotion to Lestat. Lestat was a downright monster--a selfish, bombastic child who ruined everything he touched with his hedonistic whims and turbulent infatuations. And Louis was so _different._ So sensitive and empathetic when he wanted to be, but cunning and witty too. Louis was so much better than Lestat in every way; and his insistent dependence upon his maker drove Armand mad. 

“Yes, I know. And still, I loved him. Despite all logic, there was some incomprehensible bind between him and I, and having broken that, I have lost him forever…” He looked lost in thought for a moment, as he pulled his legs up to his chest and sat against the headboard of the bed.  “ _I want to go home_.”

“If you go back to that place, it will only make things worse,” Armand sighed, gentle but firm. He nearly opened his mouth to give voice to his experience, to let Louis understand that he spoke these words only because he knew first hand about the raw agony of revisiting such traumascapes. But he said nothing. How could he, without opening a dialogue that would only lead to more questions which he did not wish to answer.

“I know.” Louis’ voice was flat--annoyed and frustrated with yet another rejection.

“Although I may have been rather harsh with you at times, I hope you can understand that everything I’ve done, I’ve done for your own good. I would not be here with you if I desired anything else but your wellbeing and affection.”

“I know." 

“Do you know, Louis? Do you really? Sometimes I wonder.” 

“The pain is still too fresh. I need more time.” 

“But that’s just it, Louis. I’ve given you time. It’s been years now. I convinced myself to stay by your side out of love, and I have done everything in my power to attempt to guide and comfort you through these turbulent times, but I cannot sit here and invest any more time in the mere promise of a future where you are whole again.  I understand that you are shattered. I _ache_ for you, Louis, I truly do. Tell me how to put the pieces back together and I will try. But if you are not willing to invest the same effort, then…I fail to see why I should waste any more time.”

“But we have time. If anything, you are proof of such endurance. I’ve no doubt I may come out of this in time, but until then…I must ask for your patience.”

“And what if I do not want to wait?! Can you not understand how unbearable it is, being in this new world without you?”

He tried to conceal his anger, but it cut through his words like a flaming blade. How could he not be furious, though? How many nights had he spent in that theatre, miserable and alone and desperate for something _new?_ It made him sick to think of how he allowed himself to grow so stupidly enamoured with this dark haired weakling, but he could not deny that Louis had been the symbol of hope and opportunity for change that Armand had been praying for all along. How excitingly bittersweet it had been, to escape with him! How he had dreamed of such a fantastical future for the two of them in this new age. And how utterly devastating it was to realize that now, nearly twenty years later, he was stuck dragging around the empty vessel of this man, so full of potential, yet so obstinate in his grief that it permeated the world around them. Never before had he been so _hungry_ for life, yet so _restrained_ by his own sense of attachment to this angelic wraith.

“Do you truly think I  _want_ to be miserable? How on earth am I supposed to be happy, when the key to that happiness is the very instrument of my misery? Tell me how I am supposed to navigate this mourning. How can I be with you when every time I look at your face, I am reminded of what you did to her? How could I possibly reconcile that? You ask too much of me, Armand. I am in no state to grant forgiveness or enjoy life with you as if nothing happened, no matter how much I love you.” 

Silence again. Armand’s face was blank as he mulled over the words, stupefied into numbness, yet overcome with emotion at the same time.

“ _You love me?”_

“I feel a lot of things for you, Armand. But above all, yes, of course I love you.”

 Louis did not know what he was expecting, but when he saw the familiar redness beginning to brim at the bottom of Armand’s eyes, he felt a sharp, crushing pain in his chest. He hadn’t meant to confess such a thing--in fact, after over two decades spent together, he couldn’t remember ever really saying those words out loud. He thought it was obvious. Of course he felt many complicated things when it came to Armand, but love was always there. He had always loved Armand for his biting cynicism and mystic wisdom; he was the other side of Lestat’s coin, both providing comfort and salting his wounds each second they spent together. He loved Armand because, if anyone was capable of fixing his shipwreck of a heart, it was him.

It wasn’t that Armand was particularly moved by the words themselves. He knew Louis loved him, just as he knew that he loved Louis the same. But somehow, hearing the words out loud gave him an unexpected whiplash that knocked the wind out of him and rendered him speechless and teary-eyed like a blithering fool. When was the last time he had ever heard those words said out loud to him? It was years and years ago, in another lifetime. A lifetime filled with heavy velvet bed sheets, soft dancing candles, sweet wine and whispered promises. How he’d flung the words around so easily back then, and how he’d taken such words for granted, stupidly believing that being in love would grant safety and stop any adversary.

By the time the first tear fell, Louis had already forgotten why they were fighting. He caught the scent in the air as he watched the deep red streak cascade down his delicate face. The hunger in his belly suddenly made itself known once again, and as the burning in his veins reached a crescendo, he instinctively moved forward and hooked one hand around Armand’s neck, cradling the base of his skull. Before he had time to think twice about it, he leaned in to brush his lips against the soft porcelain skin, kissing the teardrop away before simply resting his forehead against the other’s.

Their fights rarely ended like this. Most often, they simply fizzled out as each of them went their separate ways for a while, and then pretended that nothing happened when they got back together. Though they had moments of passion and love in the past, it was rare for them to bloom organically from such heartache.

It was Armand, who finally closed the space between them and caught Louis’ lips in a kiss. He was soft and sweet, but insistent nonetheless. And Louis obliged, allowing his eyes to flutter shut as his fingers curled around the short auburn hairs at the back of Armand’s neck. God, how was it that they always forgot how good this felt? It was always a dance with them, seeing which one would cave first, and fighting for domination as they went back and forth. But once they started, there was no stopping, and as their lips became more desperate, they were each reminded of the raw addiction they had for one another. It was dangerous, but comforting in some demented fashion.

Louis chased the tears as they fell down Armand’s face, pressing sloppy open-mouthed kisses across his cheek, down his jawline until he reached the promised land of his lover’s neck. The pulse beneath his lips fluttered and raced to the beat of the locomotive on which they rode, pounding down the tracks in the dead of night. He was trembling as he kissed that sweet spot, and it both comforted and aroused him to feel a shiver run through Armand in response.

 “Please, Armand.” 

His breath against the sensitive skin caused goose-bumps to rise, but as soon as Armand opened his mouth to breathe a simple “Yes” in response, Louis’ fangs were piercing the flesh and greedily clamping down as the blood rushed into his mouth. He couldn’t hear the whimper that escaped Armand’s lips due to his own loud moan, but he did feel familiar hands come up to tangle in his hair and press into his back, holding him close as if their lives depended on it. The heartbeat he so worshipped soon flooded his senses, and all he could hear was that unyielding thudding, as if he was holding the precious organ itself to his mouth.

_Armand, Armand, Armand._

He tasted different than Lestat. Not better or worse, just different. Still, Louis couldn’t get enough. Like a starving man at a feast, he took all he could until he was sure he would die from the intensity of it all. The heat was so scalding it nearly burned--but it was a welcome pain, a pain so sweet and overwhelming that he could not remember feeling anything else his whole life.

And for the first time in far too long, they were finally _open._ Though Armand often liked to sneak into Louis’ mind without his permission, Louis hadn’t the strength or want to return such an act. And so, as Louis sat clamped to a limp and pliant Armand, he allowed himself to drift, and to see things in the Blood.

To describe the visions and experiences within the Blood would be, for lack of a better metaphor, like describing heaven. Different for each, and vivid yet vague, the way dreams dissolve as one slowly awakens. But in Armand’s blood, Louis felt the loneliness and fear. Armand had faced darkness and come out triumphant, but there was a bitter cold in him that stung like ice, for he knew his capacity for evil, and feared that if he did not keep it bottled in the darkest corner of his mind, it could reappear. He felt joy as well, though. Joy in the memories of that past life which Louis would never know, joy in the knowledge that Louis held space for him in his splintered heart. But most of all, Louis felt a yearning in Armand. An exigency rooted in his very soul. It felt like a small child, reaching and stretching for something just beyond its fingertips. He recognized it because he knew that, deep down, he possessed the same yearning himself. Though he did not know what he was reaching for, the feeling was familiar enough to make him remember precisely why he had fallen in love with this vampire in the first place. 

When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard. For a moment, he could not tell if it was Armand’s heartbeat or his own that drummed in his ears. He did not realize how much of a mess they were until he caught a glance in the mirror across the room and saw the two of them slumped together with bloody faces and bloody sheets. He didn’t care really; it was actually almost cathartic to see that the mess they’d made. 

As the Blood worked through his veins, he sat silent, simply enjoying the euphoric warmth spread around his body. His eyes were closed, but he had no trouble sliding back into bed and making room for Armand beneath the covers. When Armand came over to lie next to them, they both knew they had called a truce for the night, yet neither one felt comfortable enough to embrace the other.

In the end, it was Louis who broke the silence, after more than half an hour of contemplation.

“I want to get better. I’m just so _tired._ ”

“I know.”

 With Louis on his side facing away from him, Armand pressed a hand flat against his back, then moved closer to press a gentle kiss to the back of his head.

“Take your time. I’ll wait for you,” he whispered. _I’ll wait for you because Lestat never could._

“Armand…” Louis turned, letting their faces brush against one another. 

“Yes?”

“ _Thank you._ ”


End file.
